The short answer is simply the people armed with an idea whose time has come… or not. It’s a romantic dream, isn’t it? Underdogs against all odds, fighting the powers that be with an idea that is universally true. Sorry, ‘big government’ anything isn’t going to cut it. The preservation of our natural law rights as illustrated in the Magna Charta, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution are to be protected first and foremost.

Maybe we should begin to think about the metals we get in return for our complacency and capitulation of conscience. Maybe it’s part of what Oscar Wilde was talking about when he spoke of “knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

Occupy Everything. Tea Party Forever. Ron Paul Revolution. The time is nigh. Hang together or hang separately.

-Winston Smith-

Editors note: This is a three part series. Check out Part one and Part two. And see all our stories from the #noNATO actions here.

Monday May 21st 2012

Lucas, Emillio and myself woke up just after 9am, and made it down to the rally for the march against Boeing just before we circled up around 11am or so. Boeing decided to close its headquarters rather than deal with a demonstration. We had won. I popped another party popper since we were all waking up and cheering a bit. It was a small victory to be sure but a significant one given that slowing down that company’s business for even a day may have very well saved lives. We learned about how Boeing had been given tax exemptions for well over two decades and free slave labor from prisons in order to build death machines to sell back to the government…in addition to all the really uncomfortable commercial jets they make.

The local organizers prepared some street theater for this action and protestors divided into groups of people who would lie down on the ground and pretend to die while other protestors drew chalk circles around them while pretending to be drones. Emillio asked if was going to join in and I was, but my job is to play the pandeiro and help keep the beat or make it more interesting when we march. I also saw other organizers stalking up not only on standard issue Revolutionary Games “weaponry” such as silly string, soap bubbles, bags of confetti and confetti cannons similar to the one’s I always like to bring on marches, but also lots of red balloons, our calling card logo. Seeing unfamiliar faces flying the colors of my affinity group on their march made me feel completely at home and left me wondering as to which muse had spread the same ideas among so many deliberately disparate strangers.

Everyone on the march had been marching and working hard for days and weeks, but our bodies had grown increasingly addicted to the flow of adrenaline and endorphins and we let everyone who saw us in the streets and online know that we were at war with war and that we knew it had every bit as much to do with our economic enslavement as the devil’s bargains we had been forced to sign in exchange for education and homes.

It was a good march, I caught up with Lou and Matt, I had been playing my pandeiro and chanting when a photographer with a really cool looking old camera asked me if she could take my picture for a project she was working on. Her name was Annie and she’d been taking pictures of occupiers from occupations all over the country and had accumulated nearly 500 portraits. I thought it was a really interesting project and we stepped out of the march for a moment so she could focus the camera and get some good light. She told me she was taking a picture of a movement and not me. I liked that. Annie wrote down my name, where I was from and she asked me just as she’d asked the others in her portraits what I would wish for if I were given one wish. I managed to dodge the question somewhat by telling her I’d wish for the wisdom in order to make the best use of that one wish.

We chatted about Annie’s art projects and my academic projects for the rest of the march up to Boeing headquarters. I took lots of pictures of the action outside of Boeing which included enough chalk, silly string, soap bubbles, explosions of confetti and paper airplanes to make children from the staunchest republican families want to stop and play with anarchists.

Nicole and John found me on the march again. We traded our stories from the previous evening, marched, and chanted together through the streets of downtown Chicago from Boeing HQ past big corporate bank branches toward the last conference of the NATO summit on Michigan Ave.

I had been lost in conversation with John while we had paused onMichigan Ave for what must have been a moment of silence when he handed Occupied Stories flyers to three guys who had been casually listening to our conversation. I’d heard one of them talk about our position next to a bus to someone on the other end of his phone before John asked him about what had brought him to the march and to write about it as well. I thought that John was sincerely trying to do outreach so I asked the guy the same question a little differently to get him talking. He said they were machinists and they were just there to check the march out. He was vague, I asked them why they joined the march assuming they had wandered in having just seen it, but the most vocal of them with shades and cap said they new the march was coming but they were still vague and evasive. Once the march started again and we drifted away from them John told me he figured that they were undercover cops given that he saw them recording what we were talking about with their phones. The thought hadn’t struck me as my mind had been elsewhere. He also told me he’d seen perhaps six other people who were probably police slip on black block attire the previous evening.

The nature of oppression in our country is such that there is great joy to be found in transgressing against the system however transgression is hardly the same thing as terrorism, and these undercover cops at best caught me ranting, loosely based on the writings of Foucault and Nietzsche about how I think that everyone in society would probably be happier if our criminal justice system was still based on public torture like it used to be during the dark ages as opposed to the modern system of confined imprisonment we use today. I could only wonder as to what those three undercover dicks and their backup could possibly think of the notion.

I later introduced Nicole and John to Annie and they hit it off as I thought they might. The four of us decided to take a break from the rally and grab some deep dish pizza before John and Nicole had to split. I walked around ‘The Bean’ while Annie took Nicole and John’s portrait. She asked them both the same question about their one wish once we had made to the restaurant. Those of us who are involved with this movement are able to put a lot of trust in one another because we see each other so often in the streets, but most of us don’t actually know that much about one another other than the raw measure and strength of character which becomes nakedly visible to all out in the streets. It was a pleasure to slow down, eat pizza far better than almost any which can be found in New Yorkand talk without chants in the background. A few Chicago Police Officers had stopped by for lunch as well and were seated at a table next to ours. We exchanged pleasantries and stories. One of them told me that there were cameras all over the area where I had been clubbed. He didn’t seem especially fond of Rahm Emmanuel, ‘he’s the guy who signs my checks’ was the officer’s response when I asked his opinion of the politician.

I parted ways with Annie and then John and Nicole after we had finished eating. They had to catch a flight and I had to retrace my steps and try to figure out the location of where I’d been whacked by the riot place so I’d have something to tell the lawyers. I figured it was definitely on Wabash just off of VanBueren like the caption in the photo I later saw online of Shon and Becca checking me out when it had happened.

Tuesday May 22nd

I was scolded by a cashier for using a woman’s bathroom at a rest stop somewhere close to the edge of Pennsylvania during our bus odyssey home, I told her it was a New York thing but that I had remembered to put the seat back down. I also heard Mandolin say it was a New York thing as well after he walked out of it a moment later. I used a bathroom in a different area of the rest station after I’d finished some really bad lunch. The attendant mentioned to another man standing there that she only had another hour left to go in her day. “The longest hour of the whole day I bet?” She looked at me and said “honey you wouldn’t believe the kinda day I’ve had.” I involuntarily smirked as I glanced down from her to pull change from my wallet; I may have also shook my head a bit in disbelief at her last remark and said “tell me about it” in the tersest acquired Brooklyn accent I could manage. She asked me how my day could possibly be any worse than hers. I told her I was stuck on an 18 hour bus ride back from the NATO protests in Chicago with five staples in my head from a riot baton.

The cashier stared at me in disbelief. She made no attempt to convince me that her day had been more difficult than mine. She paused with disbelief for a moment of such a duration that I wasn’t sure if we were having a conversation. I angled over to the display case at the edge of the counter where all of the knives were because I have a shameless knife fetish. I realized I probably shouldn’t salivate over them while talking to these folks and turned my attention back towards them with a polite smirk. Clearly thrown off by the business suit I was wearing as much as my story, the cashier asked me why the police were beating on me given I was dressed the way I was and not my gritty occupier friends outside the rest stop. I mentioned that I hadn’t been in my suit at the time, but that the police were still pretty indiscriminate. It was a lot for them to process. The Occupy Movement, at least in NYC has certainly not managed to abolish the boundaries of class which still painfully persist even in our community, however we certainly have managed to maintain our solidarity despite those boundaries.

The cashier asked me if I thought our protests had done any good. I told her that the protests against NATO had turned into a 70,000 strong anti-war statement. I told the cashier and the other guy in the store about the veterans who talked about what the war is really like before they threw their medals away and the action against Boeing and how they didn’t pay taxes and used slave labor from prisons. I told them it did a lot of good I thumped my fist against my heart as I left them with a polite nod and smile.

The view of New York City from over that northern bridge over the Hudson was beautiful. It made all of us anxious to get off of the bus. Many on the bus wanted to start march directly after leaving the bus. They got their chance with a Montreal solidarity march from Washington Square Park to Union Square shortly later that evening. I swung byUnion Square after I’d missed the march. Thorin, Lauren, Jack and others looked like they were ready for more marching. Their choice is to take the streets or to live in them but I gratefully marched to the subway stop leading back to my apartment and shortly thereafter occupied my bed.

-Harrison Schultz-

Editors note: This is a three part series. Check out Part one and Part two. And see all our stories from the #noNATO actions here.

Editor’s note: This is part of a collection of first-person accounts from #noNATO.

Chicago, IL-This account is not going to be the super detailed story of the battle between protesters and police. For one, I hardly saw any of the stories that people mentioned other than what I could find on YouTube, so it wouldn’t make sense to write a personal account of something I didn’t even witness. And two, I think my insights would paint a bit more interesting picture than the tired story of protesters being bloodied by batons. So instead I’ll give a little insight to the mysterious and silly clown bloc which I participated in for the first time today.

Surely everyone was aware of the massive protest against NATO that took place today in Chicago. It was hard to gauge the approximate numbers in the march but it surely surpassed 10,000. One thing that was for sure is that we will have to learn to adapt this coming summer.

In the past we were struggling to brave the cold and brutal winter, and were desperately looking forward to warmer temperature and greener pastures. If the temperatures pushing 90 weren’t wearing people out, the infamous Chicago humidity was. The clown bloc, which departed from Jackson and Lasalle, traveled a short half mile to rallying point in Grant Park, but upon our arrival it looked as if many of us had run a 10k (to be fair, we did do a lot of clowning around, so we exerted a lot of energy.)

One thing to keep in mind about the clown bloc is that it is a joke, and at the same time it is NOT a joke. What the clowns offer is safety and security to their fellow protesters in a fun and flamboyant way, which draws attention to the absurdity of the subject of which we are protesting. Many of the tactics we use are meant to help deescalate situations, entertain the protesters and soften (or annoy) the police, but more importantly we are out there to have fun.

I only attended a short training a few days before but in essence what the clown bloc does isn’t that different than what many direct action affinity groups do. You must have a variety of hand signals that allow for group as well as participant safety. You must be aware of the situation at all times, but when you have face paint and you are mimicking a cop you can easily get distracted.

We were taught to form a wall, how to “melt”, and charge in slow motion, as well as how to use hugs to secure those in compromising situations. But we often found ourselves just making fools of ourselves, cracking jokes while interacting with those around us and trying to get the police to smile. (By the way, a lot of the CPD seemed to be keeping their batons up their butt, because virtually none of them had a sense of humor, or facial expressions for that matter)

It wasn’t until later in the march when the rally was over and tensions started to rise that I started to see the value in the tactics that we were taught. At that point, I switched off clown mode and was keeping a safe but observant distance. Vermin Supreme (yes, that Vermin Supreme) showed better than any of us clowns that day the effectiveness of “clowning.” His calm, relaxing voice not only kept things from getting out of hand several times, but took people’s attention away from the people with shields and batons and refocused it on one another.

He may not be as outlandish as we were visually but his communication skills were outstanding. He gave a training on his methods to Occupy Chicago back in April and then we half-heartedly listened to his advice, but the NATO protest helped make it clear that our protests are more than just antagonizing and peacefully provoking the police so that we may “shed light” on the oppression and violence inherent in the system, but more that we have a message, and we have a story to tell: to tell the whole wide world that this is the people’s territory.

You have plundered our livelihoods, you’ve stolen our retirement, you’ve destroyed our health, and you’ve corrupted our system. We are merely taking it back. This is non-negotiable. We the people are re-declaring our independence and our freedom. And if it takes a pie in the face or acting like you’ve ran into an invisible wall, then so be it.

Often we have discussed diversity of tactics and what it means to be “non-violent,” but while the debate rages on about those who pursue more traditional methods, opposed to those in all black clothing, don’t forget that those with red noses also have something to offer, and in solidarity we can all fight this fight together.

- David -

Editors note: This is a three part series. Check out part one, part two and see all our stories from the #noNATO actions here.

Sunday May 20th 2012

We woke up around 9am the next morning and six of us met with three to four dozen other student protestors from CACHE (Coalition Against Corporate Higher Education) at Jackson and La Salle and we marched strong and loud through the streets to the rally at Grant Park with a giant black ball with 1,000,000,000,000 written on it in order to represent the sum of our collective debt to society in exchange for insolently daring to become smarter. The rally at Grant Park was enormous, I wandered around sending pictures of giant puppets to our own Secrete People’s Puppet Lair in NYC. Speakers from activist groups from the area and from all over the world were speaking. Lines to the water stations and kitchen were huge given the heat. I finally caught up with Nicole and John and met Rachel face to face for the first time during a meeting mostly of OWS folk from New York who were talking tactical before the march.

We caught up to the front of the march together and we popped a few of the party poppers we had been sneaking past cops. We stopped popping them off during a march after one of the Veterans at the front asked us to stop out of respect for the Post Traumatic Stress many of them had incurred. I didn’t pop anymore until after someone else in the crowd of 70,000 people on that march popped theirs after listening to those veterans denounce the war on terror with words about dead children, mothers and fathers, sexual assaults, post traumatic disorders, suicides, oil, lies and shame before throwing their medals away one by one.

It was a heavy ritual and I felt a need to get out of the crowd and get hydrated as quickly as possible once it had ended. We worked our way out of the crowd west from the march and saw huge lines of heavily black armored riot police brandishing clubs, moving in the direction we had just come given that the rally was scheduled to end at 4pm. Nicole, John and myself heard reports the police where using Long-range acoustic sound cannons on black block protestors while we were guzzling Gatorade in order to replenish electrolytes and avoid heat exhaustion.

We weren’t quite sure where we should go after we finished eating some food, but we found Lucas, Emmillio, Vanessa, Christina, Stephanie, and more and more with every block we walked until we eventually wound up on Michigan Ave. We collectively decided to begin chanting around the time 25 of us had started heading toward congress and Michigan together. The sidewalks on Michigan avenue were still large enough to accommodate us at that point, but we were obliged to take Michigan Ave. once our impromptu march had snowballed into over 50. We were greeted by hundreds of occupiers who had been under the statues on Congress and Michigan. I popped the last two party poppers I had brought with me as we tore ass down congress and began marching wildly through the car filled streets of downtown Chicago.

I shared looks of amazement, wonder and happiness, words of disbelief and reassurance and congratulatory embraces with Lucas, Nicole, John, Vanessa, Emillio and others. We had begun our march as a handful, watched grow into hundreds and felt the fragile distinction between making something happen and being a part of the thing that happened to be happening completely disappear in the process. It was exhilarating, empowering and liberating. I kept running into friends on the march. I ran into @missarahnicole a live tweeter I met through Tim and Tim himself who was confirmed that he was as exhausted as he looked after his raid much earlier that morning. He picked up a small scarf-sized red and black anarcho-syndicalism flag someone had dropped in the streets. I’m not sure why he picked it up given that he handed it right off to me since he didn’t want anyone potentially using it to attribute any ideological leaning toward himself. I took the flag and tied it to my pandeiro which I’d been playing to the bone of my right thumb on every march, not that I thought Tim’s concerns were terribly salient.

The march seemed to be going anywhere and everywhere. Lucas had some juice left in his phone and found out as had a few others that NATO leaders where gathered at the Art Institute on Michigan Ave. I was at the head of the march with Julian and others though I didn’t recognize trying to steer it in that direction. I looked officers in the eye and told them that it was nothing personal but we had to protest the scum they were protecting and that we should all go drink cold beer together like civilized people after finishing up for the evening; some of them rolled eyes, others winked with respect.

The head of the march kept moving south on Michigan past the Art Institute. A large portion of the march including John and Nicole had stayed at the Art Institute and I wish I had as well. We wound up hanging a right down Jackson I believe, then began marching up Wabash when a group of police shielded up in a circle behind their bicycles which they used to push protestors away after a cop fell or they took a protestor down, I couldn’t quite tell. I had been walking backwards along with the march away from the Greek Phalanx-like formation of Bike cops when the heavily black armored riot police quickly and eagerly swarmed in around them shoving protestors away with heavily notched wooden batons.

I was smiling and playing my pandeiro when a riot cop looked me directly in the eye. I watched his lips mouth ‘mother fucker’ as he advanced on me. I turned and ran in the direction I had already been moving without even thinking to bother about getting his badge info or evidence with my phone. I ran fast, but all avenues of escape were blocked by the backs of other fleeing protestors which was all I could see as I felt my head rattle beneath three strikes from the riot cop’s baton on top of my head. I felt another blow glance off my leg as I managed to get around the other protestors. It definitely hurt a bit in spite of the adrenaline coursing through me. I took my black fedora off and felt for damage with my right hand. My finger slipped inside my head just a little bit and my hand came away covered in blood which was running down my bare neck, back and chest. Thankfully I had already taken off my shirt from the heat and drizzling humidity which was mingling with my sweat. I had spent five years training to respond to trauma such as this as a lifeguard and I realized that I was still conscious, mobile, not to mention still rational given that I was yelling for a medic fully aware that I had no way of safely knowing on my own weather or not chunks of skull might puncture my brain later that evening.

Shon, Becca and Captain got to me. They told the cameras to get back but I said it was ok for them to shoot and film. The medics took control and Becca said she could see large cut and bruise but no fractures when she checked and palpated the wound after she checked my vitals. She told me I should still get a CT scan even though she didn’t suspect any serious lasting head trauma. She and Shon bandaged me up and told me to go to a hospital for stitches. They went back into the fray and Captain walked with myself and person or two with cameras who interviewed me while walked in the direction of Northwestern Hospital.

Captain got pissed off when a group of cops in khakis told us we couldn’t continue walking north up State Street. One of them cringed at the bandage on my head and the blood drying on my bare neck, chest and back and said he was sorry about it but that we couldn’t pass. Captain asked him how the hell he was supposed to get me to the hospital. One of the cops said he’d get us an ambulance which I doubt they would’ve paid for but they suddenly received orders to leave the intersection. They marched off and we continued towards the hospital a few more blocks.

I smoked some more of my cigar, Captain said it would help thin the blood and staunch the flow a bit more. I occasionally said hi to a few gawkers on the street while I used what little power I had left in my phone to text to my friends and get a few status updates out. I decided we should hail a cab rather than continue to wonder around looking for a bus. Captain and another guy with us ran ahead and found a cab while I pulled a shirt over the dried blood covering my torso. We were only about $8 dollars away from the hospital. Captain and his company took off in the cab back toward the action while I checked myself into the emergency room.

I was prepared for a long wait but the waiting room was virtually empty except for another protestor who’d apparently been injured before me but the nurses and docs were ready to examine me before I even had a chance to use the restroom. They let me use their phone to call the number I had for the Chicago Chapter of the National Lawyers Guild as well as the number of another Lawyer whose card I had been given right after the medics checked me out. A nurse wheeled me into a room for a CT scan and back into the ER. Two cops from a different division came in to talk to me. One of them asked if I’d been hit with a stick like the one he had begun holding over and if I knew which end I’d been hit with after I told them what happened. He put it away as we got down to the seemingly more crucial questions from their POV about what I had been doing to deserve the whacks and more importantly how I felt about police in general rather than what had actually just happened.

I told them both that I thought that the majority of cops were just people who had it almost as bad as we did and who were doing a shitty, thankless job, but that there were clearly a minority of sadists who enjoyed the brutality. One of them said that what I had said was absolutely true. I told them I thought the sadistic officers tended to be the higher ranking ones as well. The other cop told me it was all about connections and he started talking about some corrupt local politician who’s staff consisted of 80% illegal immigrant labor as if that was more important than anything I had been protesting and also as if we were on the same side. They didn’t have anything to say about my incident and didn’t have any advice to give as to what I should do about contacting lawyers or police reports.

A nurse came in and cleaned the gash on my head with cold water and hydrogen peroxide, she talked about some other “cool” things she had seen including a guy who had turned his scalp into a toupee from a motorcycle accident. Another nurse came in to make copies of my health insurance card. Another guy in scrubs gave me a quick shot of tetanus vaccine in my arm after she finished and left. Another guy in a white coat who had been some sort of bio chemical engineer before working in the ER asked me why I was out there as he began numbing the wounded area on my head before stapling it back together. I’m never sure where to begin whenever anyone asks me that question but he wanted to know what I was hoping to achieve out of this, he asked me…after I told him I thought the conversation was interesting and that I didn’t mind having it while he stapled my scalp back together…what my one demand would’ve been.

I told him I was glad we never made demands, forgot about the whole occupation on Europa thing, and told him I thought marijuana legalization could change society the fastest by ending the drug wars with Mexico, lead to reform in prisons and law enforcement, help ease the pain of all sorts of medical maladies while simultaneously cutting into the profits of a corrupt pharmaceutical industry, put America’s economy back to work by producing all sorts of things out of industrial grade hemp including bio-diesel fuels thereby also addressing the climate crisis. He snickered when I told him I believed that smoking pot would literally solve all of our problems, but disagreed that bio-diesel produced from hemp would help lower greenhouse temperatures since it was still a combustible. He went on to talk about how he thought rapid revolutionary changes typically caused more problems than they solved and that he thought revolutions were best when more gradual.

Naturally I asked him for medicinal marijuana for my headache after he finished the conversation and putting the staples into the star-shaped gash in my head. He reminded me that it wasn’t yet legal in Illinois and gave me some paper work instead before I left the hospital. I caught a cab back to my host’s place on the north side. My phone had regained a bit of juice and I texted my host and Lucas who told me they would be out doing jail support for a while longer.

I was locked out of the place we were staying, basically ok but too exhausted, covered in blood, and a bit chilly. I began to brood mean thoughts as I sat on the porch waiting for my friends to return. I knew that I could either sit on that porch and let that moment turn into another reason for me to hate the world along with everyone in it or I could go to a bar and try to talk to women. I wisely opted for the later, figuring that the blood would serve as a good a reason as any for someone to listen to a genuinely crazy story.

The bartender at a place a few blocks away asked me what happened after he took my order and put the first pint of beer in front of me. A woman who happened to be listening to my story did in fact invite me to join her and her friends who were playing cards and pool in the back. I told her I’d come hang out after I finished my burger and a conversation with another local guy who worked at a coffee shop around the area. He swung by the pool game I’d started with the girls in back to buy me a shot and shake my hand. I was overwhelmed with gratitude to find that a plastic bag with a bit of “medicine” for my headache had magically appeared seemingly by magic into the palm of my hand. I bought him a shot, and started to finish up my game with the girls since Lucas and our hosts had returned. We all needed to quickly debrief and get some rest. It was all good though because I think the blood and the story was all a bit too serious for them to take once we started hanging. The only guy who was hanging with them wanted to play devil’s advocate about why I was protesting NATO not that he didn’t support the protests, but I was in no mood to talk about it. The whole reason I had gone out to socialize was precisely to stop thinking about it.

The game soon ended and I sent my friend from the local coffee shop a friend request on Facebook before I got back to James’ place and filled everyone in on my ordeal. Lucas told me I had missed some good moments while I was in the hospital. Protestors had identified an undercover cop and started shouting “cop, cop, cop” at him until he was escorted out of the march by medics trying to look as if he didn’t know what the crowd was talking about and also as if he wasn’t afraid. I had also missed a mass dance party and group hug in the rain in front of the Art Institute after the march had ended.

-Harrison Schultz-

Editors note: This is a three part series. Check out part one, part two and see all our stories from the #noNATO actions here.

Editors note: This is a three part series. Check out part two. part three and see all our stories from the #noNATO actions here.

Brooklyn, New York

Lucas texted me on May 2^nd asking if I was going to the NATO Protests in Chicago. I figured that getting on the road and out of the city for a while would help me clear my head, regardless of the fact that I was to be caravanning with an anarchic hoard of “openly hostile peace freaks,” as H.S. Thompson might’ve described us: resolved on exposing to the masses the realities of war and its consequences for our society’s economic well-being, and probably the latest advances and trends in state-sanctioned police sadism in the process. It was two birds with one stone with a vacation to Chicago included, so I told Lucas I was down for a road trip into the dark heart of homegrown American Oppression the very next day.

Chicago, IL

Friday May 18th 2012

The ride itself on Thursday was uneventful and prolonged due to the lack of internet as well as the frequent stops we took. I called Rachel, a librarian from the Occupy Chicago Library. I got in touch with her through my friends from Occupied Stories. She told me that several live streamers had been preemptively arrested and given various charges of terrorism for having been discovered with equipment for brewing beer, that there were drones in the air, snipers on the buildings, but also that Rohm Emmanuel didn’t want any déjà vu of the Democrat convention of ‘68 since he wants to become president, which was the whole reason why he wanted NATO as well as the rescheduled G8 in Chicago in the first place. Unsettling as all of this was, it was all still far more expected than Rachel’s news that the Sears Tower had been renamed to Willis Tower since my last visit to Chicago.

We rallied with dozens of other protestors at the intersection of Jackson and La Salle. I was in a bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s when the march left. I saw a woman in plain clothes who had been mingling with us walk over to a group of plainclothes police wearing guns and badges, and saw her take off a worn, long sleeve top revealing a badge chained around her neck. She told the others that we were headed for the rally at Daley Plaza as if they weren’t already aware of where we were going. I caught up to Lucas at the front of the march, launched off two confetti poppers and started to play a rhythm on my tambourine while we chanted. I saw a masked protestor dressed in black bloc attire pop off one of my party poppers after I had returned to the march, after throwing out the ones I had just used into a public trash can. I told him he didn’t ask before he took it. He lied and told me my friends had said it was OK for him to do so as he handed the tube back to me, as if it was my job to throw it away for him as I walked away from him to catch up to my friends, who almost always can be found at the head of the march.

The Nurse’s Union Rally was pleasant. We aimlessly mingled with lots of friends from New York who stuck out from all of the nurses dressed in identical red t-shirts with red-feathered, green Robin Hood caps in support of the Robin Hood Tax they were lobbying to place on all Wall Street transactions to pay for things such as healthcare. I tweeted a few photos to friends back in NYC. The rally was of course surrounded by Chicago Police, and even well attended by undercover members of their fraternity. I became curious and started looking at badges when a high ranking officer of some sort in a white shirt asked me what the tubes sticking out of the top of my backpack were. I probably could’ve avoided talking to him altogether had he not caught me checking out his badge, but I assured him that they were party poppers and not fireworks, just like it said they were on the tube’s red and yellow wrapping paper. He told me that they weren’t safe, since all of the people at the rally might become startled by them. He told me I had to get rid of them. I held out the wrapper of a granola bar that had been given to me, said I had been looking for a trash can but couldn’t find one, probably because the police removed all of them. He told me that he’d dispose of the party poppers for me, but I told him I’d be perfectly happy to do so myself or just return them to my room. I walked out of the vicinity of the rally, threw away the granola bar wrapper once I found a trash can, took the party poppers out of my backpack and carried them back into the rally well below eye level of the police, in the blue opaque plastic bags I had bought them in, from the dollar store two blocks from my apartment in Brooklyn.

I grabbed some salad and beans provided from the kitchen when Tom Morello, The Night Watchman who emerged from the ashes of Rage Against the Machine, took the stage to support the union rally just as I saw him do at the May Day Rally in Union Square in NYC. He was every bit as inspiring as he had been when he’d played at Liberty Plaza/Zuccotti Park the fall of the past year. I fired off the last of the two party poppers I had brought with me after he had told everyone in the crowd, including the undercover police, to jump the fuck up as he played the censored verses of Woody Guthrie’s original version of “This Land Is Your Land.” No one near me made a move to arrest me, and one of the nurses suggested that I should just leave the empty tubes on the ground and walk off. I took her advice. I found Mikey a moment later. He told me he figured I launched the confetti as we caught up with Lucas and Emillio at the front of the un-permitted march of occupiers, while all of the Union Nurses in red left the permitted rally at Daley plaza on buses.

The march was energetic. There were so many of us that we had no trouble occupying the streets anywhere we went. We headed east toward Lake Michigan at some point. I was thrilled at the prospect of marching toward the waters I had grown up in in my hometown of Milwaukee, WI, and possibly shutting down the city of Chicago by occupying a major intersection on Lake Shore Drive in the process of doing so, but alas the Chicago PD had set up a blockade and we marched north through a park and began a loop through the city ultimately back towards Jackson and La Salle.

A former soldier in the Army turned bare-chested protestor had climbed up some ledges on the side of a wall to tear down a banner for the NATO summit, which declared the organization’s goals of world peace. He tore half the banner apart and was greeted by a swarm of Chicago Police who tried to arrest him after he bolted from the ledge he had been standing upon. But he kept moving. The police nearly grabbed him, but he was dragged away and un-arrested from the Chicago PD by fellow protestors. I hadn’t even realized I had been walking alongside him after several dozen of us left a police kettle on a bridge near the spot where he had torn the banner down, since someone had given him a new shirt and cap to wear. He had cut open his thumb a bit but was otherwise free and clear. I told him that I saw another officer fall and nearly whack their head on a bridge railing while pulling out a taser. A friend who had helped un-arrest the guy had a good picture of him tearing down the NATO banner that didn’t reveal his face, which he tweeted out.

We marched back to Jackson and La Salle without much more incident. A few occupiers mike checked and soap boxed for a while before most of the march moved down toward the Indian and Horse statues near Congress and Michigan. I met up with Lou, a drummer I march with at OWS from Long Island. I was bummed he didn’t bring his drum since most of the Chicago Occupiers had trouble keeping a good beat, in my opinion. Rachel had told me that most of their instruments had unfortunately been confiscated almost as soon as Occupy Chicago had begun. Lou and I decided to walk past Buckingham Fountain, best known by non-Chicagoans from the TV show Married With Children. We hung out in front of the lake for a bit. We went off in search of good Chicago pizza after Matt, a live streamer from NYC, joined up with us. I asked some police who were sitting around Grant Park where they thought we could get the best deep dish pie in the area, and they politely but grudgingly told us we should check out Lou Malnati’s off of State Street, as men with proper Midwestern values ought to. I asked if we could get a discount if we told the host that they had sent us. Rest assured everyone was momentarily amused.

Saturday May 19th 2012

I decided to go on a solo mission to pay my respects the memorial of the Haymarket Anarchists, which had intentionally been built well outside the city limits of Chicago out of spite not for any of their actions, all of which had been perfectly legitimate, but in an attempt to murder the ideas they embodied with their lives. I had wanted to see their memorial for some time and figured that this was the best day, given that the NATO summit didn’t officially begin until the next day.

I stopped and bought water and a decent smelling Dominican cigar from a convenience store after I got off the hour and fifteen minute train ride, and just before I began the 1.6 mile walk further outside of Chicago to find the graveyard. The main cemetery gates were open and I started combing the cemetery, looking for Emma Goldman’s grave in the 80 plus degree sunshine before I found a path to the Haymarket Memorial via a GPS coordinate on my iPhone. I saw a sign next to a chained entrance that listed visiting hours over at 3:30pm and informed me that trespassers would be prosecuted. I’m not the sort of anarchist that goes out of his way to find trouble with the law, and I slipped out of that particular cemetery, given that it was going on 5pm, to find the memorial I was searching for at another nearby cemetery.

I recognized the memorial from a distance as soon as I saw it through the fence at the side of Forrest Home Cemetery facing Des Plaines Avenue. I saw another sign which informed me that visiting hours had already passed. It never occurred to me to check visiting hours before I left. My resolve to visit the monument was also fading from walking miles in the hot sun to find the graves. But the monument was so close, not close enough to touch or take a clear picture, but close enough for me to feel something deep within me being stirred the same way it had been stirred over a decade before, when I had first read the story of these anarchists from history books that those like me never receive credit for reading in school until we get into higher education. I needed to visit this place in order to know with material certainty that history as I understood it was in fact real before continuing on to wherever the anarchist’s path may take me. I did not know if or when I’d ever be able to return to this place. My conscious cringed at the thought of having to return all the way back to Chicago to tell my anarchist friends that I didn’t visit a mass grave of anarchists because I was afraid to break a comparatively minor rule and jump a fence.

The cemetery was completely visible from two main roads and also by two side residential roads due to some predictably strange yet pleasant effect of Midwestern urban planning. I didn’t see cameras on any of the nearby buildings, but there was tons of traffic around the cemetery and at least two hours left in the day before dark. Yet my resolve had been set and I started pacing up and down Des Plaines Avenue for awhile before deciding that the main gate was the best spot, since it dipped in from the road only a bit on a short driveway, which would still provide some cover. I waited with my back to the gate, which I didn’t think would’ve taken me long to clear even without the parkour techniques I had been practicing over the past two months. I was so intent on watching the roads for the right time to leap over the gate that I didn’t notice the red Toyota of a groundskeeper pull up to the other side of the gate until it was right there.

I introduced myself to the grounds keeper and he told me that he’d give me ten minuets to go see the memorial after I’d explained to him that I had come a long way from New York and waited a long time to visit the spot. It was somewhat emotional for me to approach this rare monument to anarchy. It’s a larger than life sculpture of a defiant woman clad in black, majestically defending a fallen male worker on top of a pedestal in front of a large square column adorned with a pyramid. It’s more than fair to say that the monument would catch the eye and tempt the curiosity of any individual of any age or culture who happened to pass by that spot at Forrest Home cemetery to learn the story of those who rested beneath these timeless stones. I took photos with my iPhone, cleared my mind as best I could in order to say a few words to mark the occasion, and I left a small offering off tobacco near the monument from the cigar I had brought with me in the tradition of my family’s people. I made sure I had returned within ten minutes, which wasn’t difficult as the monument wasn’t far from the main entrance. I thanked the groundskeeper and puffed on my cigar as I made my way back to the train back to Chicago.

I didn’t want to go back to the protests that evening. I was looking forward to hanging out with John and Nicole that evening, but they had to temporarily leave the streets for the evening due to some heat exhaustion. I wanted to go to a beach in order to pay my respects to the “Gods” of Lake Michigan who have made me feel welcome in their waters ever since childhood. I decided to return to the protests, however, once I learned that there was a march breaking through a kettle only two blocks away from the bus station I was waiting at on State Street.

It turned out to be a good march, aside from Jack getting knocked unconscious by a Chicago Police Van driving through the protest. I caught up with Thorin, who had been helping out the kitchen at the convergence center in between his live streaming, and also Tim, who had moved out of his mom’s house since he and the other streamers were worried about being raided. His fears were not unfounded, because we learned on Twitter later that night that he had been detained, and cuffed at gunpoint while he Jeff and Luke had been raided late in the night. I was a bit worried for him at first, but I quickly realized that the incident would only increase the number of people who pay attention to him. I did in fact tweet the following morning that he had reached nearly 10 thousand accounts within 6 minutes of that morning alone, according to tweatreach.com.

- Harrison Schultz -

Editors note: This is a three part series. Check out part two. part three and see all our stories from the #noNATO actions here.

Editor’s note: This is part of a collection of first-person accounts from #noNATO. Don’t let the corporate media speak for you, if you were in Chicago tell us what you saw. Submit your story. This post originally appeared on Suicide Girls Blog. Read parts one, two, three, four (parts one and two), five and six.

New York, NY - For very personal reasons I don’t respond well to verbal abuse, and people had been yelling at me from the moment my cab pulled up in proximity to the bus I needed to catch. The wheels of the vehicle I was in had barely ground to a halt before the screaming started.

“You can’t pull up here.”

“But I’m getting on one of the buses.”

“Hurry up.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Move it.”

“I can’t, I have to pay the driver and get my bags.”

“Move along.”

I’m no futzer or dilly-dallier for fucks sake. And the cops wouldn’t exactly be happy if I vacated the cab without paying my tab. Argh! What did they want me to do that I wasn’t already doing?

Flustered, I threw myself and my bags onto the first New York bound bus I found. Only to be yelled at again. This time by an alternate driver, for some bizarre reason involving his need to sit in a specific seat so he could use a boombox to help him sleep?!?

“You don’t want to be in this bus if I can’t sleep. NO ONE DOES!!!!!”

I was getting sick of men taking their frustrations out on me. Fuck this shit.

I jumped off that bus and on to the next, only to be yelled at again, this time because it was “full.” Only it wasn’t. Fuck this shit, again.

Having run out of New York buses available to board, I collapsed with my bags on the pavement as chaos reigned around me. The presence of the police, barking unnecessary and nonsensical orders, which in turn harassed and panicked riders, was irrational. It was merely causing undue stress and hindering proceedings with absolutely zero tactical gain. After all, they were getting what they wanted, us “trouble makers” were leaving town. Like most abusive situations though, it seemed to be a power play, an action that gave the abuser the illusion of control. I hope someone felt better after yelling at me.

I sat on the cold hard concrete for a couple of minutes with my head in my hands, trying to tune out the un-checked aggression I’d been accosted with. I looked up and saw a friendly face walking towards me. It belonged to Stephen Webber, the deceptively unassuming and utterly awesome individual that had wrangled funds for the fleet of fourteen 99% Solidarity buses from the NNU. He told me not to worry, that two more NYC buses were waiting in the wings. Then, as he approached, so did the swing driver from the first bus I’d tried to board. I guess he felt guilty (he was), and offered to carry my bags to the second bus, which had now magically found room for me.

Ensconced in the relative calm of the bus, I got myself situated. Having captained one of the three buses out from LA, I’d bought a power converter with me to create a charging zone for the power hungry livestreamers aboard my designated media bus. As I negotiated with the diver as to how best to distribute his cigarette lighter-sourced juice, a female fellow Brit chirped, “Are you English?”

I turned around to see who’d inquired and immediately honed in on a girl with a crimson shock of hair. There was only one person it could be: UK journalist Laurie Penny a.k.a. my recent Twitter acquaintance @PennyRed.

I’d started following her after my friend, SG contributor @ZDRoberts had raved about her work, and had subsequently posted an excerpt from her Notes from the New Age of Dissent book – an essay entitled “In Defense of Cunt” – on this very blog. Consequently, when @PennyRed’s message saying “@99Solidarity trying to get in touch with you” showed up in my timeline, I’d immediately reached out to help. Turned out she’d been commissioned to write a story on the Chicago #NoNATO trip by The Independent, and needed a spot on one of our buses – something, as a member of the 99% Solidarity team, I’d been able to facilitate.

At the time, she’d told me she was only taking the bus one way, out from New York to Chicago, so it was a pleasant surprise to see her on the return ride. It was this kind of serendipity, born of often adverse situations, that’d been a reoccurring theme in the past few days. After all, if the first bus driver hadn’t been so offensive, I’d have never boarded this one, and we’d never have met.

The ride back otherwise was pretty uneventful, and, being a mere 15-hour journey, was far less grueling than my 50-hour epic ride out from LA. As the NY skyline appeared on the horizon, the mostly slumbering bus began to stir. “Welcome back to the rotten apple,” shouted one passenger as I stared at the deceptively beautiful view ahead. Closing in on our Upper West Side drop off point, another hollered with barely a hint of irony, “Mic Check! Does anyone know if there’s an action scheduled for today?”

As a bus captain and member of the 99% Solidarity crew, at times, organizing occupiers was akin to herding cats. But that’s kind of the point. These free-thinking individuals doggedly refuse to follow the crowd like sheep, and are not easily led. It’s this very quality that more Americans could do to be imbued with. They could also use a little of the tenacity of occupiers, something that those who claim the Occupy movement is over clearly underestimate.

My coast-to-coast adventure had been a trip in more ways than one. Thought I’d traveled across the country, I’d actually seen very little of it from the microcosm of the occu-bus. But I’d been rewarded in other ways. As I rolled across America, I’d forged new friendships, strengthened the bonds of existing ones, and substantially extended my network of like-minded activists. As a group, we’d learned a few things too; That a little organization goes a long way and that united by a common cause we could depend on and trust in the kindness of strangers, especially if those strangers self-identified as occupiers.

Though 99% Solidarity had always hoped that the Chicago trip would lead to greater cohesion and an exchange of ideas between occupiers from different cities, no one had anticipated it would lead to an actual exchange of occupiers to the extent that it did. As I write this, I’m on sabbatical from LA, occupying my friend, investigative journalist @Greg_Palast’s couch in NYC. And, having been made to feel so at home by the Occupy Chicago crew, all of whom were strangers to me prior to the advent of this trip, I look forward to paying it forward to the new members of OccupyLA once I return to the arbitrary place on this rock hurtling through space that I currently refer to as home.

Talking of which, one of the other things I realized on this fantastic journey is that regardless of whether I’m in Los Angeles, New York, Chicago or my native United Kingdom, when I’m amongst occupiers I am home.

Full disclosure: Nicole Powers has been assisting with 99% Solidarity’s efforts and is in no way an impartial observer. She is proud of this fact.

Editor’s note: This is part of a collection of first-person accounts from #noNATO. Don’t let the corporate media speak for you, if you were in Chicago tell us what you saw. Submit your story. This post originally appeared on Suicide Girls Blog. Read parts one, two, three, four (parts one and two) and five.

Chicago, IL-Monday was supposed to start with a march to Boeing’s HQ, but after the craziness of the previous day, this activist, like many I suspect, slept through it.

One of the best things about this whole Chicago odyssey had been the opportunity to meet friends in real life whom I’d previously been conversing with exclusively online. This phenomenon seemed to be universal among the protesters that had gathered in the city. Consequently, over the past few days, at marches, rallies, and at the Occupy Chicago Convergence Center, Twitter handles seemed to be more ubiquitous than names.

Having attempted but failed miserably to meet up with a group of Twitter friends that were particularly dear to me during the chaos of yesterday’s #NoNATO rally, we decided to rectify the situation first thing today. Therefore, at the crack of midday, I headed to one of the best pizza joints in town to break some authentic deep pan pizza crust with my Twitter besties.

There’s always a little anxiety when meeting digital friends in the flesh for the first time. Would/could I live up to my online persona? Would/could they? Fortunately, in this case, expectations were exceeded, and our friendship affirmed. With relief (on all sides I suspect) that our camaraderie was justified, we finished our food and moved on to the next march.

The focus of this afternoon’s action was immigration policy and ICE, however, as our procession passed the Congress Plaza Hotel on Michigan Avenue, the sight of tourists entering the site of the longest ongoing strike in the US prompted spontaneous chants of “union busting, that’s disgusting” and multiple choruses of “Solidarity Forever.” It was heartening to see occupiers embracing the finer qualities of organized labor so enthusiastically, since at times – despite a natural affinity and synergy based on shared goals – relations between Occupy and the union movement have been strained.

Heading towards the Metropolitan Correction Center, we converged with those that had been on the Boeing march earlier in the day. As our numbers increased, the policing got a little more intense. However, clearly not wanting a repeat of the violence that had marred the previous day, the white shirts were mostly making a concerted effort to facilitate our route.

I ducked out around 5PM, since I had the next day’s Suicide Girls blog content to post, and also wanted to edit and upload my last batch of photos before jumping on the bus. All fourteen 99% Solidarity-organized and National Nurses United-funded buses, which had set out from eight different cities to ferry 700 activists to the Chicago protests, were scheduled to depart at 10 PM from the same spot they’d dropped us off at on Lake Shore Drive.

During my pizza breakfast/lunch, LA Occupier b0xcar had called me to express concern at the large police presence outside the Occupy Chicago Convergence Center, where our group was converging prior to departure. That same police presence was now in evidence by our buses.

As my cab approached, one officer attempted to divert us. It was only after I explained I was actually getting on one of the buses, that he allowed my driver to pull up in vague proximity. While gathering my luggage, plus several other bags I was transporting for friends, numerous cops took turns to yell at me to hurry up. Actually offering a hand might have been more helpful than screaming at one girl who was clearly having difficulty wrangling six heavy bags. But since assistance wasn’t offered, I clenched my jaw shut and silently took the utterly superfluous verbal abuse.

Over the past 24 hours, one of the paramount concerns of the 99% Solidarity group had been to track those who’d been arrested and facilitate their release, since leaving any of our number behind would be problematic in more ways than one. Diane Moxley, a veteran activist legal adviser who was running jail support, noted that charges tended to match the severity of the baton-induced injuries so police could justify their use of force. However, as our departure time approached, the reality seemed to dawn on the Chicago Police Department that any occupier who missed our bus would likely just occupy Chicago after their eventual release. Not wanting to add to their problems – or Occupy Chicago’s ranks – all but one of our group was released in time to make their ride.

That didn’t mean everyone was going home though.

To be continued…

- Nicole Powers -

Editors note: This is part of a collection of first-person accounts from #noNATO. Don’t let the corporate media speak for you, if you were in Chicago tell us what you saw. Submit your story. This post originally appeared on the Occupied Oakland Tribune.

Chicago, IL-We walked rapidly to meet hundreds gathered in front of the Art Institute. I found out from a comrade how the march there was started by four people, walking home from the large protest, who decided to take the streets. Yes, four people ignited hundreds! So together, at the intersection of Adams and Michigan Ave, we danced and draped our arms around each other and howled our favorite chants. “A-Anti-An-Ti-Ca-Pa-Ta-Lista. An-Anti-An-Ti-Ca-Pa-Ta-Lista.” People looked so beautiful in the streetlights, all faces absolutely shining. Oh, and it started to rain! We did not disperse! In fact, the rain was what actually gave rise to our complete exuberance. This was my favorite time, if someone were to ask me to choose.

But the riot police then moved in as a malicious force to snatch and grab a comrade (a new tactic for arresting “trouble makers”). I am sure they have a reason to put on paper, but really it was to divide us; to end our moment of cheerful solidarity. As my friend Ramon wrote of his experiences with the oppressors of his Basque people, “They don’t like seeing you having fun”.

So we voted to march, as our energy had shifted. We had a GA! And while most comrades who spoke expressed a longing to stay, to hold the space, to meet each other, when we voted it was overwhelming to march. So we marched. It was spirited at first, but became a sort of manic advance on unknown dark places as police lines blocked us from the fancy hotels filled with dignitaries we had hoped to reach. Some kids became interested in turning things over (benches, flower pots), for which Occupiers got to demonstrate our familiar beauty by turning things back and then talking to the youth. But cops moved in shortly after with a reason.

These cops were not the ones with the brimmed hats and the pressed suits, who stood on street corners engaging pleasantly with folks. These wore black body armor. They were huge. They looked like robocops. They reminded me of OPD. We were walking very fast in the back, and the scuffling sounds their back body armor made as all of them rushed in behind me… Do you know what that is like? When your body goes to “fight or flight?” And then they tackled someone, the scuffling sounds peaking, and I turned around and saw four or five holding a woman up against a wall, her arm pinned above her head, the shock on her face! A woman! We walked towards her and said “We are just watching you arrest our friend. We have a right to do so.” But they didn’t follow those laws, and we felt this and started for the march again. And again I heard hideous sounds and turned around to see another sister thrown to the ground with officers on top of her. I left. I headed for the nearest subway stop. I did not turn around again.

I spoke with other Occupiers during the convergence who have deduced that police go after women to insight our anger. How it is that police around the country are displaying similar tactics at the same time. Who is giving these orders?

I return to Oakland the next day to find that another young black man has been murdered by OPD. They claim Alan Blueford had a gun. But really, the officer shot Alan three times and then once in his own foot for his own protection. And now I find out they have just arrested my friend…

We are being systematically brutalized and murdered by the state because of who we are and what we represent. It’s very romantic to think change comes about in peaceful, non-interrupting ways. But that is not our consciousness yet, and now I struggle with the notion that maybe it is not the goal after all. So, I join my comrades on the street and yell, “Stand Up, Fight Back!”

What I saw in Chicago were so many brave people, using their bodies (no shields!) between others and police. To be on the front lines as the crowd attempts to push through and police beat heads with billyclubs… “What did they say back in ’68?” one officer said. “Billyclub to the fucking skull,” another officer replied.

I read an article about revolutionaries in Egypt, impoverished by the system, who come to the mosques for refuge, their eyes red from the tear gas, their bodies bloody from police weapons. They receive medical attention, food and water and then take back to the streets to return to the front lines. We are resisting! Please, don’t tell us to be peaceful. We have tried that long enough. And our redwood forests are gone; our black, brown and poor people and abducted, incarcerated and murdered by the state; the Keystone Pine line is being built! Lakota grandmothers are standing in front of supply trucks. Let us have our anger! Let us demonstrate outrage! It is necessary.
We are in the midst of great transformation. And we are being challenged physically, mentally, emotionally on so many levels. Our adrenal systems (controlling hormones), nervous systems (controls signals between different body parts), muscular systems, are all hypervigilant.

Let’s take care of ourselves. And take care of each other.

Love Live the Oakland Commune and Fuck the Police!

- Molly Batchelder -

Editors note: This is part of a collection of first-person accounts from #noNATO. Don’t let the corporate media speak for you, if you were in Chicago tell us what you saw. Submit your story. This post originally appeared on Suicide Girls Blog.

Excitement for the dawn of a day that had taken much planning was severely tempered by the harsh reality of the night before. Sleep deprived but running on adrenalin, our group headed over to Grant Park.

In the same way the powers that be had tried to frame the narrative for the May Day ‘General Strike’ action by conveniently breaking news that morning of a terrorist plot by supposed Occupy activists, news of the arrest of the NATO 3 on the eve of M20 had been a prominent talking point over the past day. However, by now, more details were emerging, which made the whole scenario seem very suspect.

A pattern had started to emerge that had distinct similarities to the alleged May 1st plan to blow up an Ohio bridge – a scenario that turned out to be facilitated by the FBI to entrap a group of unfortunates who, left to their own devices, would likely be barely able to set off fireworks on bonfire night. Similarly, with the NATO 3 there was much talk of planted evidence and a highly suspect search warrant.

Following a speech by Jesse Jackson, Chris Geovanis of Chicago Indymedia briefed members of the media under the shade of a press not-quite-tent. She told us that when the police conducted the search that had lead to the NATO 3’s arrest it had taken them four hours to produce a warrant which was unsigned when it finally arrived. “That is the hallmark of dirty policing in this town,” said Giovanis, “There may very well be police entrapment here.”

The sun was beating down on Grant Park, so as the rallying cries began in the band shell, protesters were mostly scattered to take advantage of any shade they could find. Tactical and medic briefings wisely took place amidst clumps of trees.

Just before 2 PM, the protesters – and police – began to take formation, lining up in the road alongside the park. Protesters took their place in the center of the street, which was lined by police in riot helmets on either side. At the top of the march, ahead of the official rally banner, press were kettled in a pen of their own. Two police trucks were parked in front of the press pen, and in front of them, somewhat bizarrely, there was a red double-decker sight-seeing bus, the top floor of which was filled with news camera crews.

As the march set off, with the indie media segregated from the protesters, they resorted to interviewing each other. This made more sense that it might otherwise have, since the persecution of key livestreamers and members of the Twitterverse and Bloggersphere, had become one of the main stories of the day.

Walking through the streets of Chicago, I fell in step with Luke Rudkowski a.k.a. ‏‪@Lukewearechange, who was giving an on camera interview as he did his livestreaming thing. Listening in, I heard him talk about how he’d spent the night at a “safe house” outside of the city. This was a precaution several other streamers had thought it prudent to take. “We stream live, raw and unedited for people to make up their own mind,” explained Luke to the old guard reporter. “It’s a very weird situation when homeland security is interviewing your friends about you.”

When they weren’t comparing war stories from the past 24-hours, those in the press kettle were gleefully mocking the news crews atop the double-decker bus. Physically separated from the actual march by the two police trucks, these so called “journalists” were limited to reporting a perspective the police controlled. It served as a graphic illustration as to why the world is tuning into livestreams as mainstream news audiences continue to fall.

Halfway through the march, I ducked under the leading “NO to NATO warmakers” banner and worked my way back through the impressively large mass of bodies. I found my friends just as the march ground to a halt at a point where a group of veterans intended to symbolically hand back their medals. Hot, tired, and too far back to hear the speeches, we spread our large banner on the ground and lay down on top of it.

As I lay back and sunbathed with my eyes closed, I could hear the crowd at the head of the march taunting the cops on horseback who were blocking their way (“Get that animal off that horse”). When I open them once more, much of the crowd has already dissipated. Parched, I left my group, and went in search of somewhere to buy a drink. This turned out to be a highly fortuitous time to act on my thirst.

As I headed back along the march route I encountered massive formations of ominously attired officers from a variety of law enforcement agencies. The state police I passed in full RoboCop body armor looked particularly threatening, sporting batons of a size and length more akin to baseball bats. Before ducking into a convenience store I passed one who was clearly in a leadership role. His smile, swagger, not to mention the large, lighted cigar he made a huge show of savoring all seemed highly inappropriate.

Heading back with supplies in hand, I bumped into my California 99% Solidarity media bus comrade @CodeFrameSF. He was one of several new but fast friends I’d made over the course of this hectic and historic weekend. As we made our way back towards the rally the CPD issued their first dispersal warning. A few minutes later the first of several injured and bloodied protesters began to trickle by, the most severe cases were being tended to and/or carried by Occupy medics. At this point, having got a fair idea of what was likely to come watching the livestreams the previous night, this reporter decided to get the fuck out of dodge.

Back in the relative comfort of the 99% Solidarity base camp, I monitored the livestreams. With the permit having timed out at 4 PM for the official march, it had now morphed into one of the wildcat variety, which was being policed with increasing ferocity.

Once again, the mainstream press were paying attention to Occupy for all the wrong reasons. Members of our group clustered around the TV and channel surfed through several network news reports.

The visions of violence were so shocking that the collective tone of the anchors was distinctly sympathetic to those on the business end of the batons. “We’ve also seen police officers pummeling people and we don’t know why,” noted CNN’s Don Lemon. Later on in the same report, after viewing a particularly brutal shot, he exclaimed, “My goodness! Does anyone deserve that?”

Reports of injuries and arrests were coming in thick and fast. At this point one of our number with legal experience peeled off to do jail support.

Disturbed by the riot porn that was taking over the TV on all channels, and in need of food and beverages of the alcoholic variety, the rest of our group decamped to a local eatery. The conversation was subdued, as our number stared down at their iPhone and iPad screens, keeping tabs on the wildcat marches that continued on for several hours.

As we walked back our base, a by now beyond capacity Red Roof Inn room, a brief moment of semi-delirious levity took hold as we spontaneously broke out in a chorus of our new favorite chant: “What do we want? Time travel. When do we want it? It’s relevant.” Yeah, I know, it’s occu-humor. Like much about the movement, you either get it or you don’t.

Full disclosure: Nicole Powers has been assisting with 99% Solidarity’s efforts and is in no way an impartial observer. She is proud of this fact.

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